


i will become your slaughterhouse (your killing floor, your morgue, and final resting place)

by saintsurvivor



Series: evidence of a want that transcends hunger [1]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016) Whump, Blackmail, Choking, Concussions, Creepy Murdoc (MacGyver TV 2016), Dark, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Guns, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stalking, Strangulation, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29425371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsurvivor/pseuds/saintsurvivor
Summary: All it takes is a professional grade wig carefully placed on his head and skillful prosthesis settled onto the line of his jaw and further distorting his cheekbones and an internationally wanted assassin walks into The Phoenix Foundation in Los Angeles.
Relationships: Angus MacGyver & Murdoc (MacGyver TV 2016), Angus MacGyver/Murdoc (MacGyver TV 2016)
Series: evidence of a want that transcends hunger [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164893
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	i will become your slaughterhouse (your killing floor, your morgue, and final resting place)

It’s quite pathetic how easy it is to sneak in.

Truly, _truly_ laughable. The security of the Phoenix Foundation is beyond subpar, sloppy and terrible, the entire joke _and_ the punchline, as if they don’t protect incredibly sensitive information, as if they aren’t a think tank cover that still houses incredibly secretive and dangerous projects. As if they aren’t housing the most brilliant, beautiful mind he’s ever had the pleasure to meet.

 _Incredible_ , he thinks. _Truly, truly, pathetic._

This whole job has been in the works for a while, he’s been preparing for _months_ for this opportunity. He’s done long shifts, of planning, of watching, of stake outs and in the end, even after all of his plans and contingencies, even with all his careful note taking of schedules, of routines, all it takes is simply ... _borrowing_ some of Wilt’s incredible prosthesis that were just so thoughtfully laid out at Angus’s house and staging a little accident with some acid and then it’s _done_. He really must remember to thank Wilt, honestly. Very talented, and becoming somewhat of an accomplice actually. Murdoc might have to see if he could turn Wilt to his side too, though he imagines his dear Angus would have something to say about _that._

And so, with all his careful planning and some _subtle_ manipulation, after months of prep all it takes is a professional grade wig carefully placed on his head and the skillful prosthesis settled onto the line of his jaw, further distorting his cheekbones, an internationally wanted assassin walks into a clandestine government spy agency in Los Angeles. 

An internationally wanted assassin walks past the Phoenix Foundation’s reception, past the guard station and into the deeper bowels of a covert agency, past _multiple_ tactical teams and laboratories. He even walks past _dear_ dead Jill’s picture, blond and smiling and bubbly, hanging on a wall of deceased employees, like they’re at a police station. How _quaint_ and _sentimental,_ truly.

After months of preparation, of staking out dear Angus’s house, of sighting his pretty blonde head through the scope of both a sniper rifle and a professional photography camera, seeing just how _delectable_ his boy scout looks fresh out of the shower, how beautifully _vulnerable_ he is when he’s sleeping, of breaking into his house, of lying in his bead, eating his food, even sneaking a shirt of his into Angus’s shirt draw, just to see if he’d notice, everything comes down to simply …. _walking into the Phoenix._

He feels a little cheated, honestly.

He truly can’t resist the little finger waggle he gives when he passes a random security camera, ducking around a corner, something that would look like he was just waving goodbye to someone _just_ out of frame if someone wasn’t paying too close attention. Murdoc has the time, he _knows_ he does. Everything has been set up spectacularly, and Murdoc isn’t known as the best in the business for _nothing_ , after all.

Miss Davis had been the easiest to get out of the way and yet had been one of the most vital people to remove from the scene because her technical talents; she’d been simply sent on a dead end errand that Murdoc had concocted _just_ for her specifically; one of his old contacts that had owed him multiple favours for the _longest_ time, and Murdoc had been all too happy to have to spend even _one_ favour on Angus. He’d made sure it was an errand Miss Davis couldn’t refuse, asking directly for her, hinting enough that he’d heard of her being Artemis37 through the deep web and various hacking sites, riding the _incredibly_ thin line of believable and too much. Miss Davis was _very_ much like himself in this aspect, though he imagines she’d take offense to that, considering how _rude_ they all like to be; dangle something in front of her and she would hunt the carrot until she could do more than just take a _bite_ out of it. She’d risen to the occasion magnificently, taking the bait, and so _that_ particular thorn in his side had been summarily dismissed.

Poor Wilt had been commandeered to work down in the labs again after _someone_ had oh so mysteriously wrecked his new line of cotton seersucker bulletproof mesh dresses that he’d been trying to prototype, leaving very little untouched. _Incidentally,_ only a beautiful, navy blue daisy embroidered summer dress had been left. Murdoc had been entranced by it ever since his little spy in the science department had shown him it and told him that apparently _that_ little number was a _gift_ for _his_ sweet Angus. Simply delectable, truly, to think of Angus in that sweet dress, wonders if he’d be able to get Angus to wear it for him.

Even _Jack_ had been dealt with. For all his training, Jack was a predictable man when you got to know him, and also when you staked out his place for _oh_ , about three weeks and snuck around his apartment. He’s out at dinner with one of his rogue CIA friends, after they’d requested to have dinner to look over some classified files from back in the day. Murdoc had had to _bend_ him just a little more than he’d thought, the shifty CIA agent only agreeing after some judicial threatening of the little girl he’d been having a little tea party with. Simply delicious cookies, Murdoc _must_ admit, perhaps a little too plastic for him, however. Murdoc may not care for Jack as he does Angus, but he knew enough about Jack to know that he’d never truly talked about his intelligence days as a wet work agent for The Farm with Angus, had only really hinted at the things he’d done, even whilst under Matilda’s delicate handling. He knew that poor ol’ Jack was _terrified_ that Angus would walk away from him, would be _scared_ of him, would think of him as a _monster_ , as if Angus wasn’t smart enough to piece together what Jack did in the CIA from just how he did refuse to talk about it. 

He supposes this is why Jack’s the rabid little mutt that guards his boy wonder and isn’t the brains of the entire operation.

Murdoc feels for him, truly, he does, but in the end, Jack Wyatt Dalton is a roadblock to what Murdoc so desperately wants and so, with only the mildest efforts expended, another pawn on his chessboard is knocked down. He’d wanted to kill the man, he’s envisioned it almost as much as he’d envisioned what he’d do to his Angus, to get the _one_ thing that was standing between him and the ultimate expression of his want, his fascination with Angus out of the way. But in the end, despite how much it _galled_ him, despite how much he truly wanted to shoot the man full of bullets, Jack Dalton had been left alive and untouched with nary a tiny hair on his hard head damaged. Murdoc hopes that Angus appreciates the restraint he’d shown on his little rabid guard dog.

In a turn of events that _no one_ had been surprised about, Matilda had been the hardest to pull away, most definitely, but as Murdoc calmly strode through the corridors, looking for all the world like he was just another employee, perhaps a new one getting a little lost, despite Matilda being harder to manipulate, _that_ didn’t mean that the little ants beneath her boots at the Pentagon and other agencies were _not,_ and so, with a little bit of a nudge from an old _friend_ in the FBI, and _perhaps_ just a little bit of extortion and blackmail; _bye bye, Matilda!_

He turns a corner, slips easily to the side, gives a sly smile to the person he manages to avoid bumping into, watches how he startles, hurrying easily away, he pauses at the war room, eyes catching on the unlocked doors, the unfrosted glass. _This_ is where everything usually happens, leading teams, listening to comms, _debriefs._ The _heart_ of the operation and Murdoc is going to slip a knife into it as surely as he’s going to dear Angus.

He can’t help himself, truly. Everything about Angus just makes him ... _impatient._

Angus truly is one of a kind, settling something alight in his blood that he’d thought he’d never feel, makes him excited, his heart thunder, makes him want to be _impulsive_ in ways he never usually is. He can’t help it now, not when he’s this close, not when he can _practically smell_ the betrayal, the _vulnerability._ It’s a massive breach of his plan but isn’t this the excitement that he needs, the excitement that makes him want to dig his fingertips into Angus’s flesh just to hear his cries? He slips inside the war room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He inhales deeply, grinning. He tucks his hands in his pockets as he strides around slowly, taking in every little detail; the large screen, Matilda’s desk, the little bowl of paperclips on the glass table, no doubt for Angus and his talented, busy fingers. He can’t help how he strokes a leather gloved hand over the back of one of the leather chairs, imagines what it would be like if it was still body warm from where Angus had sat there, knows that this is his boy scouts favourite. Many a photo has been sent from behind the unfrosted windows of dear Angus stretched out in this very chair, paperclip or file or _something_ in hand. He’s got a file of purely pictures taken of Angus in this room, laughing, smiling. _Crying._

Even remembers how his little spy had captured a truly delectable video of Angus’s face when dear, poor Zoe had perished, drowned, all because she wasn’t as good as his Angus, as his boy scout. Even the _thought_ of that video has Murdoc shivering, hand clenching down on the leather back of Angus’s favourite chair, thinks of how his boy scouts shoulders had slumped, the clench of his eyes, the terse flex of his jaw, the slow drop of his tears as he’d tried so hard not to make a sound, the way his shoulder had trembled with the effort. Truly, truly _delectable._

Oh, what Murdoc wouldn’t do to hear his cries, to see the slow reddening of his beautiful eyes, the glassiness of them, to hear how his breath would hitch, shoulders trembling, how he’d try so hard to not let Murdoc hear. What Murdoc wouldn’t do to be able to see those beautiful tears of his, to get a hand on his chin, lift his magnificent blonde head, to lick them up from his flushed cheekbones. _Oh_ , what Murdoc wouldn’t do to _taste_ them.

But today - _today_ is about more than having to think of it, is more about having to simply remember the static slow closing of his boy scouts eyes, of watching, enraptured, as Angus’s hands had clutched the table until his knuckles had whitened, wishing he could _hear_ the soft sound of the man’s crying. No, today is about _more._

He frosts the window with a simple movement, settling into Matilda’s desk chair. It takes only a single click for the looping programme one of his little spies had help implant into the security network, looping only the cameras in the war room. He pulls a cloned phone out of his pocket, one of several as he’d managed to clone all but Miss Davis’s, tutting. Simply child’s play, he really must make a note after to tell Miss Davis to up her security on everyone’s phone but then. Perhaps not. He’s thinking of trying his hand at text conversations between him and Angus, after all, to let the message that he’s going to impart today _sink_ in. Maybe even try to pretend to be one of his old MIT friends looking to reconnect. The thought of the betrayal on Angus’s face when he _realizes_ would be simply too good to pass up. He half wishes he’d managed to get footage of how Angus had looked when he’d realized just _where_ his father had been all this time.

Wishes he’d have been able to use the three months that dear Angus had been free from the shackles of the Phoenix Foundation to play _catch up,_ to even offer his services towards James MacGyver, but alas, the timing hadn’t been right and sweet, slippery Angus had ghosted through his fingers like he so often does.

That’s half the fun though, the _thrill_ of the chase, and _oh,_ Angus does it better than anyone Murdoc’s ever met.

_Upstairs blondie, need you for an urgent consult._

Matilda wouldn’t be allowed her phone over at the Pentagon, mostly because of the nature of the conference she’d be called in, and almost because it would keep her busy for at least a few hours more, and he can’t imagine that Angus, for all his rule breaking tendencies out in the field, would be one to question his boss on such a plebian thing without a good reason. Nothing should have tipped off that magnificent brain of his about this, Murdoc is confident.

Yes, having his message, his _lesson,_ being given in the war room is a massive change of plans, but he supposes he can forgive himself for it. He’d planned originally on having to herd Angus either to an elevator or somewhere else, somewhere secluded and well hidden, perhaps even being able to have fun in Angus’s own lab, but the thought of being able to _play_ with Angus _here?_ Where he meets with his team every day, of tainting the memories of team, of _family,_ with Murdoc, of _them,_ where he wouldn’t be able to escape the memories, regardless of whatever they did? It truly is such a good opportunity, something that Murdoc wouldn’t, or _couldn’t,_ pass up. Angus would equate even just the _thought_ of the war room, of _Phoenix,_ with Murdoc. He’d never be able to _forget_ about it.

Honestly, his dear Angus really does inspire him like no one else ever has, perhaps not even Amber.

He carefully pulls the wig off, slips the prosthesis off too, onto the desk as he waits, knowing that it won’t be long now before Angus is here. He’s never been a properly patient man, always been told that he’s never had the correct temperament for it, a little _too_ used to getting his way, but everything about Angus makes him _truly_ impatient. Still though, he needs to be calm, he’ll have the chance to let that impatience out soon enough, he just needs to _wait_ only a little while longer. It will be more than worth the wait, after all, when it finally does end.

Good things come to those who wait, after all.

“Heya, Matty,” Angus is talking before he’s even in the room, blonde hair ruffled, as if he’s just been running his hands through it, loose limbed and relaxed. “Thought you’d be over at The Hill for a few more hours-” A gun safety _clicks_ off softly, and dear unprepared Angus freezes.

“Hello, MacGyver,” Murdoc says. He grins, motioning with the pistol towards the door, watches as Angus slowly steps properly inside. His blue, blue eyes never wave from Murdoc’s. “Ah ah, boy scout, I don’t think so. Lock the door, yes? We wouldn’t want anyone walking in on us before we can _finish,_ do we?”

Murdoc watches with heavy lidded eyes as Angus does what he’s told, such a good little boy scout, as beautiful in his obedience as he is in his _dis_ -obedience. His eyes are wide beneath the hair that falls into them, jaw clenched and flexing, Murdoc can _see_ the way the tendons stretch, wants to fit his teeth around them. He’s wearing his usual tan trousers that Murdoc honestly _does_ despise, they truly do Angus no justice, and -oh. _Oh._

He’s wearing a too big ashy black henley, pushed up to his elbows, tucked loosely into the waistband of his trousers, his customary three buttons undone at the top to show the delicate concave of his clavicles that Murdoc dearly wishes to press bruises into. Oh this is too much, this is simply too _sweet_ . He’s _wearing Murdoc’s shirt._

“Why are you _here,_ Murdoc?” Angus grits out, hands up to his shoulders, palms out. He slowly sidling away from the door when Murdoc directs him too with his silenced pistol. He looks so adorable when he’s angry, like the sweetest puppy, nose scrunching up slightly, a pinkish flush creeping up his throat, dipping down onto the skin of his chest, noticeable only because of the gaping collar. Angus really is bad for his self control.

He laughs instead of saying all the ways he wants to _bite_ those collarbones, all the ways he wants to see Angus beneath his hands. He gets to his feet slowly, watching every move Angus makes, carefully making sure he isn’t too close to anything; there isn’t a lot of things that could be used as a weapon near Angus, but he knows that Angus is resourceful enough for _anything_ to play a part in something if he wants it to.

“Can’t a man simply want to visit a very, _very_ dear friend at work?” Murdoc asks, hears the slow measure of his own footsteps against the hardwood floor, feels the sway of his black trench coat against his calves. It’s like everything is magnified by a hundred whenever he’s in Angus’s vicinity. His Angus is watching him with those blue, blue eyes, like a deer in the way of an oncoming car and doesn’t realize that he won’t ever survive the following crash.

He stalks forward, and Angus doesn’t even move, eyes flickering to and fro, from Murdoc to his unwavering pistol to the surrounding war room, his golden eyelashes shimmering in the too bright lights of the room. Angus doesn’t even move until he realizes that Murdoc isn’t going to _stop_ , and then he’s backing up, not slowly anymore, but hurriedly, knowing that he’s the one on the losing side here. He even trips over his own feet like the startled deer Murdoc compared him too, when Murdoc continues, moves closer until he can see the slow flutter of those eyelashes, until Angus no doubt feels the bite of the metal barrel of the silencer against the flat of his chest.

Angus doesn’t do anything, _can’t_ do anything, only thrusts his chin up, eyes bright and defiant, fiery, like Murdoc has always liked them to be. Sweet, silly boy scout, never even realizing that he’s playing so nicely into Murdoc’s hands, never even realizing that his defiance ust makes Murdoc _push_ harder. He wants to get his hands upon what truly makes his boy scout tick, just to see the break in his armour, the way his eyes look so beautiful in his sadness. Murdoc’s never met someone who is so beautiful when shattered as if he is whole.

Murdoc smiles again, can see the way Angus’s eyes startle, blinking reflexively, as if trying to hide a flinch. He moves the pistol up, until the metal of the barrell presses against the bare snatch of skin on Angus’s chest, and Murdoc can _see_ how the golden skin there blanches white, uses the barrel to pull the collar of the henley down, exposing the barest hint of pectoral, gaping enough for him to see the very thin curve of silvery dusky scars that curve down, the bisected gunshot wound almost by his heart. Murdoc wants to _lick_ over it, replace that mark with a brand of his own.

In between the beat of a heart, the blink of an eye, Angus seems to gain some courage, fear fleeing his beautiful eyes. One of his hands jerk to the side and downwards, batting the pistol away, knee coming up to hit out at Murdoc’s crotch. With a quick deflection, Murdoc loses the gun, hearing as it clatters to the door, sliding out of reach for the both of them. A quick open handed palm has Angus’s thigh going to the side rather than up, and a follow up with the back of his hand against his boy scouts face has Angus staggering back, falling against the wall of windows behind him, dazed and confused. Blood seeps from his split lip, head bouncing off the window with enough force to have a loud cracking _thud_ echo around the room.

Angus seems to recover easily enough from the violence, even with his eyes fluttering with confusion. He staggers a little, aiming a hard punch to Murdoc’s left side, left open as he attempts to go for the gun, and Murdoc growls, ducks and grabs Angus’s wrist, clenching hard enough to feel the shift and grind of bones, how Angus lets out a soft grun, tugging, trying to get free. Murdoc dodges his leg again, Angus’s knee catching on the middle of his thigh, a starburst of aching pain that makes him growl, especially as he’s unable to dodge the heavy rib hit from Angus’s other hand. Murdoc grunts, pulling back. Another back hand, knuckles colliding with Angus’s cheekbones has a sound like a moan escaping, grimacing mouth bloodied further, remnants of it on the back of Murdoc’s hand. He revels in it, carmine and visceral. He strikes forward, uses the grip on Angus’s wrist to shove him backwards, collapsing against the wall of windows again, narrowly missing the small smear of blood he’d left there on the first blow.

His fiery, stubborn Angus staggers forward again, tries to twist his wrist out of Murdoc’s grasp, using his squirming as a distraction to land a heavy open palmed chop to the left side of Murdoc’s ribs, twisting enough to follow it through with a heavy fist to Murdoc’s wrist that is keeping his own held hostage.

Murdoc grunts heavily, grinning through the lancing pain as he uses the grip of Angus’s wrist to pull him close, uses his already bloodied knuckles to land an even heavier back hand yet again. Angus’s head is thrown to the side, blood dripping, fresh and scarlet, onto the wooden floor, a soft grunt escaping Angus’s no doubt now swollen mouth. He uses the time to physically haul Angus back, shouldering him against the wall behind, head cracking against it again.

With a steady hand, Murdoc gets a grip on Angus’s hair, feels the soft strands even as he uses it to turn Angus, so he’s facing Murdoc, slumped against the windows once more. His eyes are just as glazed and confused as before, legs jelly like from how they shake. He seems to be rearing up for another attack, despite the fact that he can barely seem to track Murdoc properly.

Murdoc can’t reach for the gun without leaving himself open to attack again, but Angus is confused enough that he makes a delightfully vulnerable sound in the back of his throat when Murdoc steps even closer, a hand striking out quickly, fingers wrapping around that delectable throat that Murdoc has _dreamed_ about so much. It feels glorious beneath his fingers, quivering, Angus swallows heavily, and it presses against the broad expanse of Murdoc’s palm.

“Oh boy scout,” Murdoc tuts, ducking his head closer so he can see the glaze of Angus’s eyes, how he looks like he’s trying so hard to figure out what’s going on, a slight unevenness to his pupils. “You couldn’t have just made this easy for the both of us, could you?”

He _hauls_ his dear Angus up, enough that he can see the man’s feet scrabbling, knocking uselessly at his ankles as he attempts to regain his footing, hands coming up to clumsily push at Murdoc’s hands, wrapped so tightly against his throat, keeping him pressed against the windows, the low sill no doubt pressing against the back of his thighs. He hopes it leaves bruises. A hungry sound bubbles up in the back of Murdoc’s throat as he sees how the struggle has knocked Angus’s ... _borrowed_ henley, gaping delightfully at the front, sloping down a little over one shoulder. He has the sudden, primal urge to scrape his teeth over the bony notch of his boy scout’s shoulder, just to see what type of reaction he’d have, to see how beautiful Angus would look, branded and bruised, marked up with _his_ marks.

“Now,” He says, conversationally, as if he hasn’t got a hand around Angus’s throat, tight enough to have him struggling but not enough to cut off his breathing, as if he can’t feel the rabbiting pulse of the blonde’s pulse in his thumb and forefingers, deliciously panicked and _terrified_. Fear has always been such a good lookon Angus, honestly, no wonder everyone wants to see him like this. Angus is simply beautiful on a normal day, but with fear lurking in those normally confident eyes, _my,_ he’s simply _intoxicating,_ like the finest of wines, the sharpest of knives. “Here’s what’s going to happen, my dear boy scout. I’m going to show you this _delightful_ video of dear Jack and Miss Davis and then I will explain to you _exactly_ what is it that I’m going to them if you so much as _shout,_ do you understand, Angus?”

Angus’s eyes are still just as glazed, just as confused, and Murdoc sighs, tutting as he gives Angus a little shake, hearing the dull thud of his head banging off the frosted window. Murdoc sighs again when it gives him no other reactions than a parted mouth, pink, spit and blood slick. He gives Mac’s face a few soft slaps with an open palm, relishing in the matching pinkness that is starting to bloom on those cheeks. Angus moans softly, turns away from the hits, eyes rolling slightly in their sockets before they settle on Murdoc’s face, bleary, vacant. Murdoc can _feel_ the pause of Angus’s heart before it starts rabbiting away again, as if any part of Angus will be allowed to escape this moment.

“ _There_ we go, that’s better, isn’t it?” Murdoc says brightly, creeps the hand from Angus’s hair, ghosting over the slow bruising at his temple, feels the brush of his eyelashes, brushes beneath those glistening eyes, relishing in the edge of fear he can see settling in. He’s just so _beautiful_. His hand touches upon the edge of Angus’s jaw, thumbs the swell of his bottom lip down, sees the glisten of teeth, the lash of pink _pink_ tongue. Let’s his hand fall, pressing against the unsteady heave of Angus’s chest, digs his fingertips into the delicious expanse of his ribs, clenching, releasing, almost utterly unable to resist the urge of slipping his hand into that belly, right down into the viscera, wonders if his Angus would even be able to stop him. “Engage your magnificent mind, Angus, let’s get that little motor going, otherwise this is going to get far messier than even _I_ planned, and though I’d dearly love an excuse to blow ol’ Jackie’s brains out because you, my dear boy scout, were _naughty_ , today is about _you_ and I, and I won’t have that interrupted, not even by you, my dear.”

Weak hands come up to grasp at his wrist, fingers scrabbling, nails long enough that there’s a sweet starburst of aching every time Angus has enough strength to dig into the delicate skin. One scrabbles up his arm, catching on the leather of his trench coat, trying to scratch, trying to push away, but unable to. Instead, it wraps tightly around his bicep, and Murdoc relishes in the thought that Angus can probably feel the strength coiling beneath Murdoc’s muscles, how little effort it’s truly taking to keep Angus pressed against the window.

With careful handling, Murdoc slots a thigh in between Angus’s legs, uses it to add another controlling element, keeps Angus pressed against the window, because he can feel how Angus is tensing his muscles, as if preparing to kick out again, and despite Murdoc being able to write sonnets to and about the muscles and arteries he wants to carve free from those delectable and delightfully long legs, his prize for the day is one that he’s already got his hand wrapped around. Today is a simple _threat,_ a little lesson, to let dear Angus know just how _close_ Murdoc is to him; he truly can’t wait to divulge the secret of his little spy, just to see how panicky and paranoid his dear Angus will get.

The hand on his wrist squeezes, but it’s loose, a barely there after thought that has Murdoc laughing. He uses his other hand to bat it away, feels how it drops, bobbing in the air, flailing for a moment before it curls against his belly, weak little pushes as Angus lets out panicky little exhales through his nose, delicious and terrified, eyes wide, neon bright.

“I must admit, dear Angus,” He says, watching how Angus’s eyes fall to his mouth, tracking his lips carefully, as if the several back hands and two bashes of his head against the reinforced windows has made his ears ring. “I do feel _exceptionally_ cheated with how easy it was; not only to get into the Phoenix - I mean, honestly? Not even proper security, for _shame_ , Angus, what would dear old daddy say if he knew how lax you all truly was? - but just how easy it was to manipulate everyone away, simply child’s play, and I think even a child would be offended.”

He peers down at Angus’s slowly reddening face, eyes getting side tracked on the slow rivulets of glistening blood on Angus’s swollen, mushy mouth, barely there shadows tucked away into the puffy corner of it, blood tracking towards his chin, trembling with how he’s trying to escape but _can’t_. Murdoc can’t help himself, finds himself almost hypnotised with it, distracted in a way he always seems to be when it comes to Angus MacGyver. His mouth drops open, parted just a little, tongue slicking across his bottom lip, and he sees how Angus shivers, shudders, pushing at his belly, his wrist, trying to pull away from his slowly tightening his hand, pressing into the hard surface of the windows. His head tilts up, as if he can do anything to get the smallest breath in.

Poor Angus; always trying to run and never quite succeeding. He was made for people to leave, not to leave them.

He truly can’t help himself, truly he can’t. A common feeling around Angus. Everything about Angus _calls_ to him, sets him alight, and the sight of Angus, confused, dazed, glassy eyed, on the very verge of tears that he knows his boy scout is too proud, too dignified to let fall with the blood on his mouth, against his teeth; oh it’s simply a feast for the eyes, something that Murdoc will think of time and time again when he finds himself missing Angus.

He reaches a hand out, like a compulsion, moving from his ribs, half hoping that he’s pressed the bruise of his whole hand into the delicate skin, curls his fingers instead over the cleft of Angus’s chin, feels the flinch startle of his muscles, how his fingers tighten around Murdoc’s bicep as Murdoc grasps his face, uses the swell of his thumb to smear the blood from Angus’s chin, from his swollen mouth. He watches how Angus’s mouth drops open slightly, the whistle of his stifled breath brushing against Murdoc’s ungloved hands, he can’t help how he smears the glistening blood over Angus’s bottom lip, pink skin turning raspberry red. Murdoc has to stop himself from leaning in, from pressing his teeth to the bloodied lips just inches from his, Angus’s eyes watching him, intent, panicked, wants to devour Angus’s mouth like it’s his for the taking.

But no. No, no this isn’t the time, no. Today is about more than the carnal things Murdoc wants to do to his dear Angus; this is a warning, a lesson, something that he needs to impart, to let _sink in_. Metaphorically speaking of course, Murdoc doesn’t bring a knife along until the third date, and though he’s desperately waiting for the time where he can have Angus in his arms and slowly, _slowly,_ slip the blade of Angus’s own Swiss Army Knife between his shivering ribs, feeling the weak jackknifing of his boy’s body, Murdoc can be patient. He _must._

So, instead of all the ways he wants to press his mouth, his hands, his weapons to his boy scout’s flesh, he tears his gaze away from the delectable sight of Angus’s mouth glistening with his own blood, seeping to touch upon the white of his teeth. He tears his gaze away from the way Angus is staring at him, how the pink flush creeps up his cheeks, his temples, blonde hair falling into his eyes. Angus simply is too pretty for his own good, and it makes something in Murdoc _crawl_ to know that someone else has seen him like this, has put their hands on him as Murdoc is doing. It fans the flames in his chest, has him snarling, feeling the slow tightening of his fingers on Angus’s throat, hears the soft choking, the way he’s trying so desperately to swallow through the collar of Murdoc’s fingers, as if Murdoc isn't the one who's so _graciously_ allowing him to breathe.

“No one’s coming to help you, boy scout,” He hisses, presses closer, can smell the sweet citrus fragrance of his cologne, can _hear_ the way Angus’s breath stutters, smelling of too strong coffee and spearmint bubblegum, thinks if he pressed just that little bit closer, he might be able to feel the tremble of his boy scouts ribs, how his chest can’t rise and fall properly, how he’s _squirming_. Murdoc has always known his boy scout would look beautiful like this, struggling for breath, at his mercy, his baby blue’s heavy lidded, blown wide, staring up at him, as if begging but unable to, and _oh,_ he looks stunning, _debauched_ almost. Murdoc can barely control himself. “All of the little ants and _pests_ that you surround yourself with have vacated the nest; they’ve left you _vulnerable_ , Angus. They’ve scurried on with their own lives, and have left you empty and alone, with only me left to fill the void. Do you want to see what they’re doing, boy scout? What they think is far more important than you, who they call friend, _family_. They’ve _left you_ , my dear.”

Angus _chokes,_ back arching into a delectable long line, spine twisting, his eyes are red and hazy, glassy with tears that he still refuses to let fall. He’s letting out little choking noises, guttural, deep, in the back of his throat. His nails barely scrape over Murdoc’s wrists, and it’s just so _easy_ to keep him pinned, feet scrabbling, barely against the floor, as Murdoc _squeezes_ , fingers flexing. He can _feel_ the way the skin on his Angus’s throat _sinks_ in, how it blanches further white beneath his fingers. With his free hand he grasps his phone, bringing up the surveillance he knows that will put the last nail in poor, poor Angus’s defiance, shaky as it already is with his probable concussion. Perhaps he should keep Angus concussed next time, he’s so much more .. _.biddable_ this way, but Murdoc knows he’d miss the fire that had first led to the concussion. It's the fight that _truly_ gets the blood going.

It’s a simple enough matter to pull up each video, manhandles Angus just as easily, curling him closer, pressing against the arching of his chest, feeling the stutter of his restricted breathing, the thundering of his heart against Murdoc’s own chest. It is, to pardon the pun, simply _breathtaking._

“Like I said, boy scout,” Murdoc croons, tilts his phone until they can both see, knows Angus can probably feel the damp breeze of his breath against his face. He can see the way Angus blinks reflexively, aborting the no doubt full body flinch he wants to give, neon eyes flickering from the side of Murdoc’s face to where the phone now shows Jackie boy, laughing with another man, clapping him on the shoulder, grin on his face. There’s a tightness to his frame that Murdoc picks up on easily, but thinks that Angus, with his eyes glassy and hazy, wouldn't pick up on it. A deft flick, and the video changes, showing Miss Davis, hunched over a laptop, a tall man with his face skillfully hidden from the camera sitting near her. Angus’s eyes go wide, panicky. His heart somehow seems to speed up, racing. Murdoc can _feel_ the thundering gallop of it, wondering if he’d slipped a knife between Angus’s ribs, if he could bathe in the redness of it, if it would gush over his hands, would it feel like a benediction, would it feel like he’d just committed the most grievous of sins? Angus could simply tempt a _saint_ to sin, truly. “They’ve left you, they’ve simply ... _slipped_ away. You didn’t truly think they wanted you, did you? That they wanted to be around you? Oh, boy scout, surely you know that the only one who could ever love you was me?”

The phone screen goes black, and for a second, the merest moment, Angus’s face is reflected there, pale white, lips slowly losing that beautiful raspberry pink colour, leaving only the red of his blood, the pale pink of his tongue. His face is slack, but it's his eyes that give him away; wide and stricken, hazy with breathlessness and hurt. Oh, it's far more beautiful than he ever could have imagined. Murdoc watches him, tucking his phone back into his pocket, easily batting away the hand that tries to claw at his belly, wraps his hand around the wrist, _squeezes_ until dear, _dear_ Angus gives a breathless yelp that catches in his throat, only a breathless squeak escaping. 

“ _Delectable,_ my dear,” Murdoc says, breathless, presses close, feels the slowly fading heat, tucks his hand closer and tighter to the slender column of his boy's throat, feeling the slowing pulse. He can’t help how he nuzzles the tip of his nose against Angus’s cheekbones, staring at where those beautiful eyelashes are slowly starting to glisten, damp with instinctual terror. “C _ry_ for me, Angus, oh _please_ do. I simply must see how beautiful you look. I’ve imagined this _over_ and _over_ , Angus, truly I have. I’ve _dreamt_ of this, of my hand around your beautiful throat, of seeing your beautiful tears. You’re a _dream_ , my darling, and I simply can’t get enough.”

Angus chokes on his own whimper, and Murdoc croons softly in reply, deep and gravelly. He watches with a rapturous gaze as those neon eyes flutter, golden eyelashes casting shadows like bruises across Angus’s drawn cheekbones, watches with the utmost breathless anticipation, how his own heart clenches, flutters into the cage of his chest as that glistening dampness coalesces, forms. Angus blinks, eyes just as glassy, just as hurt. That droplet slips, drips from those lashes, and with bated breathing, Murdoc watches as it slides down Angus’s cheeks, glistening upon the carve of it.

Angus is …. _utterly_ resplendent in his tears.

Shivers, shudders beneath Murdoc’s gaze, those fingers are weakening around his wrist, his other hand has stopped pushing so insistently against his belly, resting limply there now, still like Angus never is, unless it’s because Murdoc has his sights upon him. Isn’t that a truly intoxicating thing, that only _Murdoc_ can still those little cogs, can throw such a spanner in the beautiful mind that is Angus MacGyver? 

He truly can’t himself, finds himself almost _possessed_ with the urge to taste, to taste and to take, leans forward, he can feel the butterfly fragile flutter of Angus’s heartbeat, thundering against his fingers. Draws the tip of his nose against the hollow of Angus’s cheekbone, nips at the flesh there, before finally… _oh, finally._

His tongue slicks a damp line up, over the curve of that cheekbone, tastes salt, like sweat, like fear, like _tears_. He moans softly as sweet Angus squirms beneath his grasp, can’t escape, he won’t ever escape now. Not when Murdoc has been able to taste how delicious his fear really is, how he looks so magnetic, delectable beneath the tight grasp of his hands. Before, that was playing, a schoolyard boy tugging at their crushes’ pigtails but _now_ , oh _now_ this is so much _more_. Something Murdoc had been on the very cusp of but had never given much thought to.

Angus is his, but in such an _intricate_ way. He thinks he’ll keep Angus alive, if only to take him to the grave when Murdoc lies beneath the earth also. Wouldn’t it be so terribly poetic?

“You are…. _angelic_ like this, Angus,” He murmurs, scraps the sharp of his canines over that sharp jaw, licks absently as another tear drips, falls, covets it like he does all things that Angus calls his. “This originally started as another little cat and mouse game between us, I was going to so cheerfully threaten you into doing my bidding, into seeing just how far you’d be willing to go for this family of yours, see if those pesky little morals would hold up, but _oh, Angus_ -” 

Murdoc pulls back, just enough that he can see Angus’s face, the way his lips are slowly fading to blue beneath the scarlet splash of his blood, the way those electric eyes are turning hazy, oceanic grey beneath the lights of the war room. 

“And you _letting_ me do this, letting my put my hand around your throat, _letting_ me choke you out, watching the light leave your eyes, truly boy scout, I don’t think you quite understand that I’m letting you live just because of how beautiful I find you like this, balanced so carefully, so _delicately_ between life and death. You’re _mine,_ sweet Angus, and not even death could take that claim, could ever rid you of the bruises that I’m pressing into your skin, that you’re going to wear like a necklace around your delectable throat, and even when they fade, you’re still going to feel the phantom of my hand, aren’t you?”

Angus squirms, shudders, those weak fingers finally, fully slipping from his wrist, brushing the jut of his jaw with the chastest kiss of his knuckles before-

“It’s like you were _made_ to _die_ , boy scout. Like you were _made_ to die by _my hands."_

Angus goes limp, beautiful eyes fluttering, the slightest wheeze of his breath and the barely there rise and fall of his thin chest the only indication that Angus is even alive, loosens his hand _just_ enough that it’s no longer a sickly wheeze that Angus makes. He smiles, presses the curve of his mouth to Angus’s cheek, licks at the damp tears there, tastes sweat, fear, salt, even the old copper taste of blood. _Exquisite._

“Say hello, my darling,” Murdoc murmurs, uses his free hand to manipulate his phone, snaps a beautiful photo, of Angus’s shadowed cheekbone, the limpness of his head, the delectable part of his mouth that has Murdoc’s heart racing, breath hitching. The tight grip of a leather gloved hand, leaving no doubt to who has their sweet boy scout, their little golden retriever puppy that they so casually and unthinkingly left for someone to scoop up. Thankfully, Murdoc is a generous man.”Utterly, utterly beautiful, Angus, truly, you don’t know the ways I’m going to tear you apart. Perhaps I shall let you know when we do this again, hmm?”

Slips his phone back into his pocket, and it’s easy enough after to scoop Angus up into his arms, cradled against his body, a heavy weight for such a seemingly slender man. His generosity lingers for a little while longer, and he lays Angus out on the leather couch, kneels down to do so, makes sure that he’s comfortable, because not even sleep can cause Angus even the slightest ache. That is, after all, _Murdoc’s_ job. Every ache, every bruise, every injury that makes it's way onto Angus' body should only be put there by Murdoc. 

“Until we meet again, unfortunately,” Murdoc murmurs, and he leans in, ghosts his mouth over the bruised flesh of Angus’s temple in a fleeting kiss, his hand a heavy weight on the curve of the boy scout’s hip. “I do so look forward to it, however.”

Beneath the stark lights of the war room, Angus doesn’t stir as Murdoc slips out, as beautiful and still as he was in Murdoc’s arms. Murdoc smiles, reverses the loops on thr security cameras but he doesn’t bother putting his prosthetics or wig back on. No, when they all get that photo they will know exactly who has touched Angus, who has shattered him so completely, so beautifully. Let them know that he’d done it right beneath their noses, that when dear Angus wakes in the war room, he will be confronted with his own weakness, with his own inability to escape.

Angus is _his,_ he’s simply reassuring his claim on him, after all, if they hadn’t wanted him to, they shouldn’t have been so easily toyed with.


End file.
